


A True Companion

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Ace!Norrell, Angst, Asexual Character, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, did i say pining?, lots of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25308757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: The only way I ship these two is one sided. My hc is that Norrell is ace and hopelessly in love with Strange, who cares for him but whose heart belongs to Arabella. Yeah. It's sad. This is kinda sad, so no happy ending here I'm afraid. But still. I find Norrell's absolutely cannon love for Strange to be so beautiful. It adds depth and heart to his character and makes me want to hug him a lot. I wanted a front row seat for the moment that Norrell realizes he's head over heels for Strange.This wasn't beta read. I am gonna just throw it out there. Hope you enjoy.
Relationships: Gilbert Norrell/Jonathan Strange
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	A True Companion

**Author's Note:**

> The only way I ship these two is one sided. My hc is that Norrell is ace and hopelessly in love with Strange, who cares for him but whose heart belongs to Arabella. Yeah. It's sad. This is kinda sad, so no happy ending here I'm afraid. But still. I find Norrell's absolutely cannon love for Strange to be so beautiful. It adds depth and heart to his character and makes me want to hug him a lot. I wanted a front row seat for the moment that Norrell realizes he's head over heels for Strange.
> 
> This wasn't beta read. I am gonna just throw it out there. Hope you enjoy.

It was a pleasantly chilly evening in late October. Flames crackled merrily in the fireplace of Gilbert Norrell’s study in his house in Hanover Square. The man himself was seated behind his desk, half absorbed in reading an obscure book on early eleventh century magicians and their connections to druid societies, while looking up periodically to look upon his pupil, Jonathan Strange.

Strange sat in an armchair nearby, somewhat less absorbed in a slim volume by Nicholas Goubert. Nothing of much importance was contained therein. Nothing that would entice Strange to feats of unsupervised magical acts. Nothing that would lead Strange further down the path of his curiosity toward the forbidden subject of fairy magic. Strange had an expression of mild distaste as he read, his brow furrowed and his mouth pulled down and to the side in a soft sort of sneer that betrayed his dissatisfaction with the reading material he’d been given. 

Norrell knew that the books he allowed Strange to read were full of naught but half-baked ideas and old, disproved theories, and part of him grieved at the necessity to keep the man in the dark this way. But it was all for the greater good, was it not? Strange, delightful company though he was, could not seem to leave off asking about fairy magic or the Raven King. Both were subjects that made Norrell tense with a panicked sort of dread. He could not help but fear that Strange would one day tease out and tug on the thread that held the facade of lies surrounding Lady Pole’s resurrection together, and in doing so, unravel them completely. 

And so he continually pushed Strange toward books with little knowledge or value and snuffed out the twinge of shame he felt about doing so. It was for the best. The alternative, that Strange (and the rest of England) would discover his dealings with that horrible creature with the thistledown hair, that Lady Pole’s misery and anguish could be laid at Norrell’s feet? Unthinkable. 

Despite the fact that Gilbert Norrell feared the loss of his tightly held control over the state and practice of English magic, what he realized (perhaps somewhat belatedly) was that he almost feared Strange’s disapproval still more. He had not realized how much he’d missed the company of a person such as Strange during the long years he’d labored alone at Hurtfew Abbey. Though how one could miss a thing one had never had was beyond him. 

For nearly two decades it had been just himself, his books, and the mostly silent, brooding presence of John Childermass. And before then, he had been a small, pale young man, in love with books and reading and little else. He’d never had any friends, and was mocked relentlessly for his persnickety nature. 

His time at Hurtfew Abbey had been a sort of self imposed prison and a paradise in one. He’d borne the isolation for the sake of the acquisition of knowledge, and to own the truth, he’d been largely quite happy. Books were Gilbert Norrell’s life. Other people did not often play an important role in his sense of contentment. They were usually represented merely as unwelcome intrusions into his solitude. 

Childermass, helpful and unobtrusive, could be trusted not to bother him too much throughout the day, and for many years, he had studied and practiced largely in peace. Now, since moving to London, he’d been forced to put up with countless society dinners and balls and gatherings. The press of people, the cacophony of crystal against china, of ladies' high pitched laughter and the booming voices of men, bragging about nothing of worth. The constant talking on subjects not relating to magic, all this made him want to throw himself through the nearest window to escape the steel vice grip of social interactions and endless, meaningless chatter. He suffered Henry Lascelles and Christopher Drawlight for the simple reason that they had helped increase his power and influence by a large degree by introducing him to London society. They had been very helpful to his cause, and they could be dealt with relatively easily if one kept an eye on them. Still, he craved solitude and quiet and rarely had he been afforded either since coming to London.

Until now. Until meeting Jonathan Strange. Now, he and Strange were allowed to sit and read and talk together of magic and nothing else for blissful hours on end. Being that they were the only two magicians in England, and that they had mysterious and important things to discuss, it was allowable to dismiss everyone else from the room and simply spend time alone with the other man. No Lascelles or Drawlight to distract them, and most importantly, no Mrs. Strange to pull Mr. Strange’s attention away from their studying. Mrs. Arabella Strange, with her fretting over the state of Strange’s coat or her possessive touches to his arm, that made Norrell feel an unpleasantness in the pit of his stomach that he did not enjoy in the slightest.

It did not seem to matter that he and Strange were so very different. Strange was gregarious where Norrell was reticent. He was charming where Norrell was cantankerous. He was brave where Norrell was beset with fears. In the meantime, Norrell was careful while Strange was rash. He was well ordered while Strange tended toward messiness. Norrell went about things in a methodical, practical way, while Strange simply did as he pleased with little rhyme or reason until he’d accomplished whatever goal he'd set himself to. Yet somehow, despite their differences, their acquaintance remained a pleasant and enjoyable thing. 

It was the magic. At least that’s what Norrell thought at first. The moment Strange had performed his first trick, the moment he’d done that unbearably charming and unusual spell with the pamphlet in the mirror, he had effectively aroused the spark of Norrell’s curiosity and gained his instant respect. To know that here was a man like himself. A man who practiced magic and thought about magic and _excelled in the execution of magic_ just as he did, was akin to discovering that he had a long lost sibling. And a sibling he found he quite enjoyed spending time with. It was a gift indeed. 

It did not hurt matters that Strange was rather nice to look upon. His dark curls and interesting features, his sly, easy smile and the playful glint in his blue eyes were yes, very pleasing to Norrell. Not that Norrell cared overmuch for these things mind you. It was simply a matter of aesthetics. Strange was handsome and that was something Norrell noticed. And it was something that Norrell enjoyed, in much the same way that he enjoyed looking upon the cover of a newly acquired and well bound book. 

The fact that the sight of Strange’s face caused a warmth to bloom inside Norrell’s chest and for his heart to beat just a bit faster was no one’s business but his own. And really, there was nothing wrong with feeling a certain sort of excitement when one sees one’s good friend was there? A dear friend ought to elicit warm feelings such as these shouldn’t they? Not that Gilbert Norrell had had any true friends to speak of in his life. But, he assumed that this warmth that unfolded in him upon seeing Strange’s face was quite a normal and ordinary part of a fond acquaintanceship. Absolutely commonplace and in no way remarkable. 

He had often felt as a man on the outside looking in when people described great flames of passion and sexual longing. The descriptions of carnal pleasures in salacious novels, or those acts hinted at by Drawlight and Lascelles when they casually spread their rumors of affairs had by high society people, did not inspire any heat inside him. Not as they seemed to do for so many others who hungrily consumed such things. These acts, of an embarrassingly intimate nature, seemed dull, and quite frightfully messy. 

Norrell did not wish to remove Strange’s clothing, nor to engage in any such sordid physical interactions with him. He did however think (frequently) of perhaps sitting quite near him and reading. How lovely it would be to simply sit side by side, very close on a chaise lounge or perhaps a day bed, and read together from one of Norrells’ books. And should Strange grow sleepy, why Mr. Norrell would have no qualms about him resting his head upon Norrell’s shoulder. And, were this to happen, Norrell might turn his face just a little, turn his face and press his nose into that profusion of dark curls and breath in. He wondered idly what Strange’s hair might smell like. Or how his cheek might feel against the palm of Norrell’s hand. Silly thoughts. Not worth dwelling on. And yet, they returned to his mind again and again with somewhat concerning frequency. 

To Norrell’s delight, Strange seemed to like him in return. He gladly spent many an hour in Norrell’s company, discussing the particulars of magical history and the application of magic in the modern age. His laughter and his eagerness to learn and his bright smiles seemed to indicate that the other man appreciated their association in something of the same way Norrell did, and this pleased Norrell all the more. Yes, it was quite an enjoyable association. He dared not hope that Strange might also share his daydreams of soft touches and of reading while sitting close together, but perhaps...some day...

Norrell turned the page of his book and glanced up yet again to swiftly admire the man sitting across from him. It was by way of these many small, furtive glances that he was able to assess the full measure of Strange’s face and form and commit them to memory. 

Something this afternoon seemed subtly different however. Had he noticed before today how Strange's pale skin was set off by his dark hair? How the warmth from the fire brought out a dusting of pink colour across his cheeks? Norrell was certain he _had_ noticed such things many times, but for some reason, at this moment, in the silent peacefulness of his study, with Strange back lit by the flickering orange glow from the hearth, he seemed more perfectly handsome than usual. Norrell could not help but let out a soft sigh. 

“What was that sir?” Strange, mistaking Norrell’s sigh for some sort of attempt at communication, or perhaps seeking any possible excuse to stop reading Goubert, looked up from his book. Norrell swiftly cast his eyes down to his own book before he could be caught staring and cleared his throat. 

“It was nothing Mr. Strange. I was simply yawning,” Norrell felt his face growing warm and prayed that Strange had not noticed that he had been watched with such fond scrutiny. 

“Ah, well, I do believe reading has grown a little tiresome has it not? Shall we perhaps break for some refreshment? I myself could do with some tea.” Strange snapped his book shut, without (Norrell noticed with some minor irritation) marking his page. 

“An excellent idea sir!” Norrell leapt at this chance to break his self imposed tension and rang for a servant. Soon, Hannah was placing a silver tray with tea and watercress sandwiches and some scones and preserves upon it down on a small table between the two armchairs by Norrells’ fireplace. The men retired there and busied themselves for a time with pouring tea and procuring themselves food on small, china plates. 

“How are you finding Goubert’s book Mr. Strange?” Norrell asked, looking hopefully at his companion. 

“It is...well...it is quite vague if you don’t mind me saying sir. The man does describe some instances of magic being done, but in the least precise terms and with the use of many superfluous adjectives. He is so very indirect that I am forced to wonder if he did any magic at all.”

Norrell smiled indulgently at him. “Still, Mr. Strange, despite his vagueness, anyone who wishes to read about the magic of the Aureate magicians must first find his way there by the long and winding road of the works of the Argentines. Otherwise, the pure, unfiltered histories of the Golden Age magicians may overwhelm the reader with their terminology. It is best, is it not, to work slowly backwards, than it is to rush willy-nilly to the source? Otherwise, one’s education might be considered incomplete.” 

Strange snorted and raised his eyebrows. “I have always preferred the rushing ‘willy-nilly’ if I’m to own the truth sir.” He regarded Norrell reproachfully over the rim of his teacup with sparkling blue eyes, and Norrell almost forgot that he had just been rather bluntly disagreed with. 

“Oh…” Norrell said inarticulately before gathering his wits about him again. “do not worry over it Mr. Strange. In only three or four more years you shall be diving pell mell into the books of the Aureates. The time shall fly by, mark my words.”

Strange had no reply to this statement, and Norrell could only assume that Strange was just as excited as himself over the speed and efficiency in which Norrell’s plan of study would move his pupil along a well thought out pathway to the first beginning steps to approaching actual books of magic. It was a careful process, not to be rushed, and Strange, being among the cleverest of men would surely recognize this. 

They sat in silence for some time, sipping their tea and eating. Norrell tried very hard not to look at Strange too often, not to admire the way his jaw worked as he ate, or how his lashes brushed the tops of his cheeks when he looked down to grab a scone. My but he _was_ handsome was he not? Norrell wondered briefly that he’d never seen someone quite as handsome as Strange in all his days. He was unsure why this would be. He knew objectively that there were men of better looks than Strange. Men who everyone agreed were the peak of what could be considered handsome, and yet to Norrell, Strange held this title firmly and above all others. 

Yes, it was true, Strange could be stubborn and rash, but so could any man really. Strange’s flaws, though they existed, were not nearly enough to lower him in Norrell’s esteem the way the flaws of so many others so often did. When Strange questioned Norrell’s logic, Norrell responded fairly and calmly. When Strange requested more books to read, Norrell, still feeling a spasm of panic in his breast for the thought of giving up his precious books, somehow found a way to allow Strange to read them (in his presence of course). He had never allowed another person access to his wealth of magical knowledge before in this (admittedly limited) manner. He had in fact gone so far as to muddle the thoughts of those who had seen his books, with clever spells so that they soon forgot what little he’d allowed them to glimpse of his private collection. He had done this to Mr. Segundus and Mr. Honeyfoot and to many others over the years. But never, never to Strange. 

  
He felt a twinge of guilt over how strictly he was limiting Strange’s access to his volumes on magic, but despite Strange’s charm, despite how the sight of his face made Norrell’s heart leap in ways it was wholly unaccustomed to, Norrell had still tasked himself with keeping English magic safe and respectable. And this in turn necessitated his careful control of Strange’s access to magical knowledge. 

He could not help but wonder if Mr. Strange shared his deep affection. Not for magic, but for Norrell himself, the man. Did he see Norrell as a true companion of the mind? Did he perhaps find Norrell appealing in this soft and pleasant way? Norrell could imagine that this might possibly be true. There were times when Strange’s smile seemed warmer than it ought. Times when his laughter held a sort of merry tone that surely spoke of some deeper caring…

He could believe this only until he saw the way the other man looked at Mrs. Strange. When Mrs. Strange was in the room, Mr. Strange’s eyes would continually be pulled in her direction. It made Norrell’s skin crawl in an unpleasant way that he found hard to identify. Similar perhaps in some ways to when he heard of a book of magic in someone else’s possession. Did he see Strange as yet another book of magic? He was certain that he did not. Strange was a flesh and blood man. A speaking, walking, feeling person and not a thing of calves's leather and paper. So why should he feel this piercing, unpleasant feeling through his belly when Strange looked so lovingly at his wife? It was a man’s right and privilege was it not? To look fondly upon his spouse?

Perhaps... perhaps Norrell felt so harshly towards Mrs. Arabella Strange because he wished that _he,_ Norrell, were the recipient of Strange’s fond looks instead? 

Norrell felt himself balk inwardly at the thought that he could somehow wish to supplant his pupil and dear companion’s affections for his wife, and covered his confusion over this realization by leaning down to pour himself another cup of tea. “The scones are rather good are they not?” He asked, making polite conversation to hide the tumult currently carrying itself out inside his heart and mind. He shot a look at Strange as he said this, pulling his eyes away just as swiftly at the flush of warmth he felt when he saw the other man looking back at him. 

“They are indeed Mr. Norrell. You shall have to relay my thanks to the baker. Also, these sandwiches are delightful. You are nothing if not an attentive host.” 

Norrell ducked his head and flushed with warmth upon hearing Strange’s compliment. “Why thank you Mr. Strange,” he mumbled. “It is easy to be an attentive host to such a delightful guest.” 

Strange gave him a small smile, and wiping his hands free of crumbs he cleared his throat. “Perhaps Mr. Norrell, we might revisit the subject of fairy magic...if only briefly,” 

“Now Mr. Strange, you know my thoughts on those pernicious creatures and the mayhem they cause. It is not permissible to-”

“Only I am not certain why it is that you loathe them so sir,” Strange interrupted him, in that way he did quite often but which Norrell usually took in good grace. “We need not actually do any fairy magic. Merely discuss its origins and its influences on English magic and English culture. Surely no harm can come from that?”

“ _Great harm_ may come from that Mr. Strange! Great harm indeed!” Norrell hated to raise his voice so, but this persistent habit of Strange’s to bring up the subject of fairies was very unsettling to him. “Now, we may go back to our study of English magicians of bygone eras if you wish, for those subjects are within the realm of good, Christian morals and are the basis of a solid, intellectual discourse, suitable for gentlemen such as ourselves. But fairies and fairy magic? No sir. That subject shall be one I will avoid discussing at all costs. Even with _you_ sir, whom I may be so bold as to consider a true companion of the mind.” 

He rose from his chair as he said this and walked stiffly back behind his desk. As if putting a piece of solid furniture between him and Strange would block the subject from returning to haunt him.

“I have upset you,” Strange’s voice had grown softer and more careful. He had risen as well and still stood, near his chair by the fire, hands hanging loosely at his sides and face schooled in a neutral expression. He looked as if he were afraid to come closer lest Norrell explode again in indignation, and this tugged painfully at Norrell’s heart. Why must Strange persist in this manner? Bringing up this sore subject that would only serve to force a wedge between them...to sully this beautiful connexion they had through magic and gentle camaraderie? 

“I am sorry sir, that I yelled,” Norrell muttered, looking down at his desk with unseeing eyes as his cheeks flared with heat. “I did not mean to snap at you so. It is only that I find the mention of fairy magic to be highly inappropriate and unsavory and I wish to avoid it as a topic of discussion in the future.”

“I see,” Strange said, resignation and disappointment echoing clearly in his tone. “Perhaps it is time I left for the day,” he stepped away from his chair by the fire and made as if to gather his papers.

“No!” Norrell had not meant to say the word so forcefully, but the thought of driving Strange away was almost more upsetting to him than the thought of openly discussing fairy magic. “We need not part ways yet sir,” he amended more calmly, if only just. “Tis early still, look! See the clock upon the wall has not even struck three in the afternoon. Why, you may stay as long as you like.”

“Let us be honest with each other Mr. Norrell,” there was a cold, distant edge to Strange’s tone that Norrell was unaccustomed to. “We shall not get far together as teacher and student if you so fiercely guard your books of magic from me. I must confess that I find your ‘ten year plan’ to be daunting in its rigorous detail and it’s plodding pace. I long to dive into magic! To get my hands on it and root around in it and let it flow through me! I find this careful tip toeing about to be quite stifling. Perhaps…” and here he paused and looked genuinely sad for a moment, his anger and frustration slipping away briefly to reveal a lost look in his sharp blue eyes. “Perhaps,” he continued, “It would be better if I were to branch out on my own, rather than to continue calling myself your pupil.” 

Norrell felt his heart slow and grow heavy inside his chest and then begin to pound away with a frantic rhythm once his ears had reported to it exactly what had just been said. “Oh, Mr. Strange no, no, that won’t be good at all. You… you cannot leave. We have so much left to do!” 

“Yes sir, we do. On that point at least, we are in agreement. Only you wish me to read boring, useless tomes of little import and I wish to get my hands upon some real and actual magical theory.”

“Let us forget the ten year plan,” Norrell felt panic licking up the inside of his throat and trying to choke him. In this moment he would do virtually anything to keep Strange by his side (other than the discussion of fairy magic of course). “Here, why do you not take these three...rather these two... well, I cannot part with that one no, that is Pale’s best writing, here. Take Gregory Absolom’s book home with you and peruse it to your heart’s content. You may keep it for the whole week if you so chuse!” 

Strange looked at him steadily for a moment and Norrell returned his gaze as bravely as he could. My but he _was_ handsome was he not? Especially when anger had made his cheeks flushed and his chest rise and fall with his agitated breathing. 

The two men stared at each other for a few uncomfortable moments before Strange let out a deep sigh and walked over to Norrell, who had been holding out Absolom’s book in a trembling hand for Strange to take. It was a desperate plea, and it must have seemed so quite clearly to Strange, who reached out and took the book from Norrell. 

“Thank you sir,” he said, still holding Norrell’s eyes with his own, face still flushed and far too beautiful. Norrell cursed his traitorous heart for how clearly he’d begged to keep Strange coming back to him. His fear had become a sudden and wild thing when faced with seeing less of the man, of having him far away and not at Norrell’s side when Norrell wished. Loaning Strange a book for a week? Why Norrell must be enchanted indeed to offer such a thing. 

“I shall keep it safe and return it to you promptly within a weeks’ time,” Strange said, tone softening, becoming forgiving and perhaps a little contrite. It was clear that he did not love being difficult, which only made Norrell care for him more. 

“I hope that you know sir,” Norrell said tentatively, carefully, “that your friendship means a great deal to me, and that you are the only person with whom I can speak knowledgeably and openly about such things. The only person who is a gentleman such as myself.” (The unspoken part, that Childermass was not a gentleman of respectable birth did not need to be stated, for they were both aware of this fact.) “My attempts to institute an elongated course of study is done only to make certain that no harm is done in error that cannot later be undone.”

“Your friendship means a great deal to me as well sir,” Strange replied, the ghost of a pale smile flitting across his face as he clasped the book in both hands in front of his chest. “And I think sir, if it is alright, I shall take my leave of you today after all. I know it is early still, but Arabella has complained lately that I am never home for tea, and so I shall go and see her so that she may not feel too much as if magic has become my mistress and has replaced her in my affections.”

Norrell could not help but flinch gently at the mention of Mrs. Strange’s name, but he nodded, accepting Strange’s request to leave for the day. There was little else he could do. It would not be seemly to grasp Strange by the hand and beg him to stay. Let alone to wrap his arms around Strange’s long torso and press his face against the man’s chest. His pupil would not in this moment wish to know that Norrell longed to sit and lean against him and intertwine their fingers while they bowed their heads together over the same book. None of this would be acceptable or desirable to Strange in the least. This much he now knew to be true. 

“Quite so,” he agreed, nodding, swallowing down his unspoken yearnings. He worked hard to drag himself back from the precipice of fear and anguish he felt upon hearing that Strange wished to cut their evening short and so that he could return home to his loving, ever present wife. “If you must go, then I shall wish you a good day sir. Please know that you are welcome back any time that you desire to return. Why, if you let me know in advance, I shall have the cook make up another batch of those scones, as you seemed to like them very much.” 

Strange’s smile grew warmer at the easing of tension between them. “That would be very nice,” he said. “Good day Mr. Norrell.” and with that, he turned and left. 

Norrell collapsed into his chair, hand over his heart, and let out a long, ragged sigh. How the room seemed suddenly to have less colour whenever Strange went away. How he felt so much less like smiling and how his books seemed to hold less solace and comfort as they had before Strange left. 

  
  


He might have sat and daydreamed for far too long on his feelings for his companion had not Childermass slipped into the study, in the way he usually did, like a silent stray cat. “You are out of sorts today sir?” his man of business asked, in that all-too-knowing way. It rankled that he sensed Norrell’s mood so easily. Especially when his intuition pointed out the truth, as it usually did, with stunning accuracy. 

“I fail to see how that is any business of yours, Childermass,” Norrell snapped. 

“I only mention it because you’ve collapsed in your chair like some heroine from a novel sir,” Childermass replied, with an air of sarcasm as he began to gather the books that Norrell and Strange had taken down from the shelves and put them together in a small pile to be put back. “I was wondering what could have caused such a dramatic state of affairs to occur.”

“It is nothing Childermass. Nothing you need concern yourself with at this time.” Norrell hastily sat up in his chair in as officious and orderly and not-at-all dramatic a fashion as he could. Still, Childermass had asked, and Norrell did sometimes rely upon him to listen when Norrell was vexed over the loss of a book at auction or a confusing passage on magical theory he could not seem to decipher. 

“It is only that Strange left quite early today.” He said, trying not to sound like a petulant child and failing miserably. “I thought for certain that he would stay for dinner and into the night, for I had much I wished to discuss with him.” 

Childermass made a knowing sort of noise, halfway between a grunt and a sigh, and it seemed to Norrell as if he had already quite easily guessed the anguished contents of his master’s heart. “That is a shame sir,” he replied, pausing in his gathering of volumes to regard Norrell thoughtfully with his dark eyes behind the tangle of his lank hair. “You have never had a friend before have you sir?” he asked.

Norrell prickled involuntarily at the impertinence of Childermass’ question. He drew in a breath to contradict Childermass, and to reprimand him for being so forward. But then he realized that the man was correct, and that whats more, he was only being as he always was, clever and cynical and seeing too much for any pair of eyes to see were they not inside Childermass’ head. “No Childermass,” he agreed, sighing with resignation. “I have not.” 

“Ah,” replied Childermass in his infuriatingly inscrutable way. “Well sir, sometimes friendship can become painful. When one’s friend does not wish to always be at one’s side, it can... hurt.” 

Norrell blinked rapidly and his mouth fell open. “I...I do not wish Strange to always be at my side,” he stammered, feeling his face becoming hot and standing up from his chair, as if being on his feet were a more defensible position to take when denying that his heart was in the palm of Strange’s hand. 

“I think that perhaps you do sir,” Childermass replied casually as he took a book from the pile he had gathered and sauntered over to the northwesterly bookcase to re-shelve it. “It is plain to see that you enjoy his company very much. And now, you have just bemoaned the fact that he left before you wished him to go.”

“That, that was only because I wished to study magic with him, Childermass. I had many things of a _magical_ and _intellectual_ manner to discuss with him, and now the lesson has been cut short. That is the only reason for my disappointment.” 

“If you say so sir,” Childermass replied, with an infuriating quality to his tone that told Norrell that he had not believed a word of what Norrell had just said. 

“You may leave now Childermass,” Norrell snapped, feeling far too exposed by this little exchange than he ought to have. “I will reshelve the books. You may return to whatever it is that you were doing before you came.” 

Childermass shot him a look that Norrell knew very well. A look that told him he would oblige Norrell even though he thought the man was behaving insensibly, and obediently left the room. 

As the door to the study swung shut behind him, Norrell’s eyes fell on a dark shape on the seat of a chair in the corner. Strange’s hat. He had left it behind. Norrell felt a moment’s dismay at the thought that Strange had fled his company in such a hurry as to forget his hat, and then, when he had surely realized it was missing, what with the crispness of the fall air, he had still not returned to retrieve it. Well, Norrell would simply keep it safe until Strange returned, hopefully tomorrow, to continue their work. 

He walked over to the chair and bent to pick the hat up with trembling hands, his breath coming faster as he thought of how he now had in his possession a thing that was intimately connected to Strange. The hat was tall and finely made, and had a neat, black ribbon around the base of it that so suited Strange when he had occasion to wear it. He turned it over in his hands and looked at it for a moment, and then, without thinking too much about whether or not this was a thing he should do, he put his face into it and took a deep breath in through his nose. 

He was immediately treated to such a heavenly smell that he found he had sat down upon the chair without realizing it. Strange’s hat, which surely retained at least a little of the scent of his dark, curling hair, smelled of lavender and soap and just a bit of clean sweat. Norrell sighed and took another long breath in. He held the hat tenderly to his face and let the smell, this intimate, soft smell reach delicate fingers up into his brain and evoke images of Strange’s smiling face and lustrous, dark hair and his flashing, mischievous eyes. 

After a long moment, he let the hat fall from his face, feeling foolish and more than a little melancholy. He stood then and took the hat to his desk where he placed it carefully in one corner, away from his pots of ink, so it would not accidentally be soiled. Yes, it was a good thing that Strange had left it here. It was certain now that the other man would return now to retrieve it. And Norrell would make sure not to leave the house on any errands or to go to any society functions until Strange did so, for he would not dare to miss his visit. 

Norrell was still reeling inside a little from Strange’s earlier suggestion that perhaps he quit being Norrell’s pupil and strike out on his own. How to prevent him from leaving? Norrell knew of only one way. To allow him more books. And well, even if such a prospect made a small, miserly place inside Norrell clench in an old sort of panic, he must do what he must. He would promise Strange that he would be allowed to take one book a month home to read at his leisure. Yes, one book a month would surely quell the other man’s rash thoughts of leaving. 

Norrell smiled to himself, certain that his solution would be an adequate one. Having reassured himself that the matter was settled, he sat behind his desk again and picked up his book to continue reading. Unfortunately though, he found his concentration was difficult to regain, and his eyes kept flicking fretfully to Strange’s hat. He would return would he not? He _must_ return. They would continue their work together for many years yet. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Their names would be repeated by all of England together for many decades yet to come. Perhaps for hundreds of years. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Yes. It had a lovely ring to it did it not? 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
